CHARLOTTE—It was a very good win.
It really was. Carolina beat Oklahoma, 81-69, and this is not to diminish that victory in any way, shape or form. You can read more about the basketball mechanics of the win here.
But life didn't make sense before the game was played. And there was, somewhere in the back of my mind, the hope that maybe those two hours of basketball would make it make sense again. Maybe just seeing the Tar Heels and the argyle and RJ Davis and Armando Bacot and Hubert Davis would make it better.
But the game is over now. And life still doesn't make sense.
I tried very, very hard to enjoy that game. I loved it when RJ Davis hit what was essentially a game-clinching three-point shot with 2:44 to go. Except that Eric Montross wasn't there to gleefully shout, "HE GOT IT!"
I loved it when Armando Bacot converted a gorgeous first half post move. Except that Eric wasn't there to chortle, "He put him in the torture chamber!" I wanted to be frustrated when the Tar Heels didn't box out or frustrated at a bad officiating call or angry about a careless turnover.
What I really wanted, quite honestly, was to feel something other than empty. For eleven years, I have watched every non-Smith Center Carolina basketball game sitting directly next to Eric Montross. That's nothing; Jones Angell has sat next to him for every single game, home and away, and he still managed to put together an instant classic Tar Heel Sports Network broadcast open for Wednesday night.
And look, don't let anyone tell you that sitting next to Eric was easy. The big fella had certain demands. A comfy chair, for one. These Spectrum Center chairs would have passed even his lofty standards. And you knew that if your seat was next to Eric, you weren't really getting a whole seat. He needed more like 1 1/3 seats. Maybe one and a half.
But that was totally fine. Because damn, it was a blessing to sit next to him, both at games and everywhere else. And a basketball game didn't make that gaping hole go away. Most of us are going to move on to Christmas now. But at home there's a wife who lost her rock, and a son who lost his role model, and a daughter who lost her daddy.
Carolina Basketball has been their entire lives. It's changed now. And as the Tar Heels ran up and down the court, it was very hard not to think about them and how the way they watch these seemingly important games has changed forever.
I understand that people deal with this every day. But these are my people. These are the best people. These are people who have had Carolina basketball as a fundamental part of their lives for the last 30 years, and now it is irrevocably changed.
It doesn't do any good to be morose. Fundamentally, I understand that. I also know these feelings will eventually be less intense, the cuts will eventually be less deep. Looking around the Spectrum Center, I saw people who were already making progress on that journey. They were laughing and cheering and leaping to grab a free t-shirt from the t-shirt cannon and they were doing what you are supposed to do at a basketball game.
Which makes it more than a little embarrassing that on Wednesday night, I cried on the Tar Heel Sports Network air that belongs to Woody Durham, the all-time master of professionalism. I'm not proud of that, tried very hard not to do that.
But two days later, it doesn't make any sense that I'm at the game and Eric Montross isn't. You know who should be your hero? The Carolina coaches, including Hubert Davis, who somehow pulled it together long enough to prepare this Carolina team to beat Oklahoma.
"Eric was my teammate for two years at Carolina," Davis said before the game. "But he was my friend for 34."
Pat Sullivan was his teammate on a national championship team and seat mate on the team plane the last two seasons. Sean May followed the same Hoosier-to-Tar Heel-to national champion journey, giving them an instant bond. Brad Frederick has traveled with him for a decade. Jeff Lebo shares a basketball junkie's mind and love of watching film.
They worked together these last 72 hours and made sure their Tar Heels were going to be ready to beat Oklahoma. And they also made sure their players—who are so, so young—understood why they were occasionally a little sad.
"Be thankful," Cormac Ryan said of the message this week. "Being able to put on this uniform is special. Being part of the Carolina family is special. You're reminded of that and how special and fragile it is, especially with this happening to someone like Eric who is such a beacon in this program. Our prayers go out to him and his family."
All of those coaches would tell you: they miss Eric. Missed him at the team hotel. Missed him at the game. And missed him at some of the most unexpected times. Maybe the easy part is on the practice court or in the huddle, where there are instructions to be given and players to teach. The hard part is when the people leave the arena and it's empty and it's time to walk out and Eric isn't there, because this sounds really stupid but somehow I thought he might show up, probably wearing one of his goofy hats because it was really cold in Charlotte.
I walked into the kitchen around 6 a.m. on Monday and my wife was crying over the coffee pot, because coffee was the thing she and Eric shared. Most of the travel party was content with Starbucks. Not them. They constantly sought out the best local coffee shops in every road destination. We once drove from Spokane, Washington, to a spot in Montana on the day before a game just to pick up Moose Drool coffee to bring home. It's a funny story, and I'd love to tell it to you.
But what I'd rather do is be back in that car again, driving through the pitch black Idaho night and a little bit of snow and it was getting late and we still had hours to go and…
I miss it. I miss him. I assume at some point we're going to be able to drink coffee without tears again.
Aren't we?
People are so nice. They really are. Strangers gave us hugs and the Oklahoma broadcast crew was very kind and for the most part, this whole thing will make you believe in (most) humans again. If there has been any positive lesson these last few days, it's that the least kind of us are often the loudest. But the most kind of us are the most enduring. Eventually, they win.
What doesn't make sense is that Eric was the most kind of the most kind. And for some reason, he isn't here.
His absence is inescapable. One year ago, Jones and I met Eric at the Spectrum Center. We were trying to connect with him before we all walked inside, but we couldn't find him.
He was in one parking lot, we were in another, we were trying to link up to exchange credentials…it was frustrating and funny and exasperating and, I guess, this is what we considered a major problem 364 days ago.
A passerby saw us turning in circles and said, "You look lost."
"We can't find our friend," we explained. "And you'd think we would see him, because he's seven feet tall."
"It sounds like," the passerby said, "he'd be very hard to lose."
You have no idea.
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December 21, 2023 at 02:26PM
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Lucas: Hard To Lose - UNC Athletics
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